


& someone's got to fall before someone goes free

by brampersandon



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/pseuds/brampersandon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>five good things that happened to jesse pinkman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	& someone's got to fall before someone goes free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redbrickrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrickrose/gifts).



> i tried to touch on a little bit everything in your request, i hope you enjoy it! happy holidays!! ♥ title comes from _notorious lightning_ by destroyer.

i.  
"Whoa," Jesse breathes, drawing his hand back. 

"It won't bite you."

"I know it's not gonna— it just felt weird." 

Ginny has both hands in the water, stroking the points of a purple starfish.

Another cownose ray swims by and Jesse tries again, reaching in and brushing the tip of its wings. " _Sick_."

The aquarium is quiet, practically a ghost town on the day after Thanksgiving, which was kinda the whole point of his idea. His aunt wanted to do something — three months into her treatment, the good days are gradually getting fewer and farther between. She hates being at the hospital or cooped up in the house, but being in public exhausts her. Crowds are the worst. Not that Jesse thinks she really cares about the stares, 'cause the best thing about Aunt Ginny is she doesn't give a fuck what anyone thinks of her. But the more people there are, the louder, the busier, the faster it wears her out. 

Day after a holiday when everyone's busy sipping into leftovers comas sounded like a good plan. It's not like either of them wanted to hang around the family any more than was necessary anyway. Jesse never really did, you know, _obviously_ , but even moreso now — no one knows what to say to Ginny, how to act, so they force cheer and pretend nothing's wrong and nothing's changed. Which is actually way worse and makes her feel real shitty, thanks.

Plus, he hasn't been to the aquarium since... man, like, forever. Not since a field trip— first or second grade, maybe? It's changed since then, got way more exhibits. They stand alone in a tunnel and watch a diver feed the moray eels.

"That's so cool," Jesse drawls, dragging out every vowel as he tips his head all the way back to watch an eel swim overhead.

Shit, this place would be scary as hell high. Or awesome? Or terrifying. Or both. Probably both.

His aunt laughs at him not for the first time during this trip — it's the happiest he's seen her since her diagnosis. "We should ask if you can get in there."

"No way, yo! That thing looks like it could swallow me whole."

"It _is_ giving you hungry eyes..."

"Stop," he says, but he's laughing too as he jumps away from her. "You really wanna explain that one to Mom? Yeah, sorry _Mary_ , I fed that little shit to the eels— I mean, she'd probably like that."

Ginny doesn't disagree.

Later she gets tired but isn't ready to leave, so they sit in front of the jellyfish exhibit for a long while, falling into a sort of hypnotized, companionate silence.

In the gift shop, he buys them matching shirts — they're cheesy as all get out, tie-dyed with the aquarium logo splashed across the front, but the back's got a gigantic shark and he thinks that's pretty rad. 

"What size did you get for yours," Ginny prods, "XL or XXL?"

"Hey, come on, that's the _style_ ," Jesse shoots back. "I'm gonna look fresh as hell." He extends an arm and lets her lean on him as they slowly make their way to the car.

"You'll look like hell, alright."

"Yo, I'm gonna leave you in this parking lot. Free to a good home, one smart-ass aunt."

"I'm even house-trained."

"Yeah, barely."

Years down the line, the thing he'll remember most about their little day trip is just how much she laughed.

 

 

ii.  
"Damn," Skinny Pete sighs. "That fucked me _up_ , yo."

"I need therapy, man." Badger trails after him, eyes blown wide open. "My brain's never gonna work right again—"

They shoulder their way out of the movie theater and squint in the sunlight. Fuck. Was the world always this bright?

Jesse scrubs his hands over his eyes. "I was not expecting that, like, not at all."

"I mean, I thought," Badger starts to ramble as the trio wanders away from the theater, "Oh, it's a Beatles movie, it'll be... happy, okay? Happy! Like, Yellow Submarine, la la la, kumbaya 'cause we're all baked as _shit_ happy! Not, I dunno, the super depressing war on Korea—"

"Vietnam," Jesse groans. "It was Nam, dude, come on."

"Whatever!"

Skinny offers him a cigarette, effectively shutting him up, and speaks around his own as he lights up. "Man, you ever _seen_ Yellow Submarine? That's one messed up movie." Both of them scoff. "I ain't kidding, bitch! That shit's got everything — time travel, kidnapping, this weird, like, furry bear-rabbit-clown-doctor thing..."

"You're totally lying," Badger grins.

"Hell naw, brother, my dad watched it over and over and _over_ when I was comin' up." Skinny doesn't miss a beat, pounding his chest and throwing two fingers up to the sky. Yeah, pour one out for Old Man Pete, Badger adds with quiet reverence. "Anyway, the Beatles are dark, yo. That's all I'm sayin."

"Straight up."

"We weren't even that high," Jesse points out, eyebrows raised.

That draws a long, wheezing laugh out of Badger. "Dude, no way, shut up. You so were! Man, you were too scared to get your own nachos, okay, Skinny had to do it for you—"

"And it _was_ freaky as fuck, you ever really looked at that cheese?" Skinny defends Jesse for all of a few seconds before turning on him too. "Hey, you still owe me!"

"Yo, I'll spot you for dinner, chill out."

Badger's face lights up, three thousand watts of pure stoned radiance. "Waffle house?"

"Hell yeah, that's the shiiiiit," Jesse drawls, and Badger shoves his way between them to swing his arms around their shoulders, warbling _I am the eggman, they are the eggmen, I am Robotnik, koo koo kachoo_ over Skinny's protests of _them ain't even the right lyrics, dumbass_. He's got a pretty good friend situation going on, all things considered.

 

 

iii.  
For a while, solitude is exactly what he needs. Some might think it odd, because it's not like he didn't get enough of that in Jack's compound or anything — but that was different. Forced isolation is one thing. Choosing when and where you get to be alone is another.

Jesse eventually makes his way to Alaska, because that was the original plan, to an area that's more forest than town. The nearest grocery store is a twenty minute drive away. The carpentry work he picks up is even farther, but that's good, that's perfect. 

After the manic euphoria of finally being free fades, Jesse's left with nothing but his own hollowness. He needs help, he knows it, and it'll come in due time. For the moment, he does what feels right: he keeps to himself, works with his hands, edges out of his shell every so often but always returns home. To a ramshackle cabin near the edge of the woods, nothing around for miles but snow and trees. Like a stray dog that finds itself sleeping in the same alley each night. It's not much, but it's his.

The first time he knows he's eventually going to be okay — really _knows it_ , doesn't lie to himself to keep from giving up entirely, doesn't fake it for a few hours to look presentable in polite society — is close to eight months in. Sitting on the small porch he built himself, bundled to his ears and staring up at the northern lights, Jesse thinks: _Yeah. Alright. Maybe the world isn't total shit after all_.

 

 

iv.  
Years later when he makes his way back to mainland, having warmed up to the idea of life in civilization again, a pit stop on the road trip to find the perfect new location lands him in Omaha.

Saul looks two seconds away diving behind the Cinnabon counter and begging for his life, but Jesse's got no intention of waving a gun in his face, long past his misplaced rage. Everything happened how it happened — it's all about self-acceptance, right? He's still a long way from forgiving himself and, truthfully, he may not ever get there, but he's been slowly working on letting go of old red-hot grudges. It's taken years, more than a few, but Saul is no longer near the top of his shit list. Hasn't been in a long time.

Mostly he's surprised, 'cause this is the last place he thought he'd run into a familiar face. "Well, I wasn't exactly expecting company either," Saul (whose new name is _Wyatt_ , of all the shitty luck) shrugs, constantly smoothing over what little hair he has left. The man looks an eternity older than the last time Jesse saw him, and more than a little out of place in his starched white managerial uniform. It's a far cry from jewel toned suits and bluetooths. Still, he introduces Jesse to his wife Fei Li, a pretty little thing who works behind the counter. Naturally. "You interested in one of your own?" Saul asks when she returns to her job, leaning in close and clapping Jesse on the shoulder. He lower his voice conspiratorially, "I can hook you up real good, Pinkman. After all that malarkey with Heisen-who-must-not-be-named, you deserve a little sweet and sour love—"

"Oh my god," Jesse snorts, shaking off his grasp. "You seriously haven't changed."

"Go with what you know, right?" Saul grins. No doubt about it, that smarmy mug still belongs on park benches and billboards. It's as comforting as a shock to the system can be.

He doesn't stick around long after that, takes his complimentary box of Minibons and hits the road again, Saul's business card stuck in his back pocket. "If you ever find yourself in this neck of the woods and looking for rewarding customer service work," the man had said as he waved Jesse out of the food court, "Better call... well, you know!"

 

 

v.  
Curiosity has gotten the better of Jesse many times.

He never really stops searching for Brock, it's just not that he ever tries especially hard. Because what's he gonna do? Stumble across his Steam account and send him a message? It's been years. Who's to say Brock remembers him at all? And if he does, would he really want to hear from Jesse? It would be, like, _way_ creepy, okay. Plus, what would he even say? _Hey, I'm that guy your mom dated for a little while when you were, like, six. I dunno if you remember me but I still think about you guys pretty much every day. How's life?_ Yeah, see, creepy.

Were Mike still around, he'd be able to track the kid down to the longitudinal coordinates of his bedroom in mere minutes. But don't think about Mike.

No, Jesse only goes as far as he knows: a simple Google search, and when nothing eye-catching comes up in the first few results he closes it out. The act becomes an idle, mindless compulsion he indulges every so often. He never actively expects anything to come of it (never stops hoping, either).

Until the day it works.

The fourth link down is a short article from the Albuquerque Journal. Something about the J.P. Wynne High School varsity soccer team emerging victorious in some tournament or another — all Jesse can focus on is the name _Brock Cantillo_ in stark black and white. It has to be him. Right? It's not like it's a common name. Brock Cantillo, senior, number five. Jesse combs those facts over and over, rereads the short blurb about a spectacular defensive play in the last heated minutes of the game. He has tunnel vision, ringing in his ears, a profound sense of disbelief that this is actually happening.

Graduation's a few months out. It's only a couple days' drive from where he's currently calling home. And god, it's been so long since he followed through on a really crazy, spectacularly stupid idea.

 

 

Nothing about being back in Albuquerque feels real. Jesse spends the better part of the day convinced he's in a waking dream, except who would dream about sitting in a car outside Taco Cabeza? That's just pathetic. It gets worse when he returns to J.P. Wynne — the familiarity is deafening. 

The sky is as blue as he remembers. The streets may be dirtier, busier. A voice in the back corner of his mind nags him to take a trip out to the desert, see if it's still as vast and imposing and sweltering and impossibly beautiful as he dreams it, but Jesse shuts down that line of thought quickly. Bad idea. 

He gives the science wing a wide berth, teeming with irrational paranoia.

(That's one name he never bothered to look up. Whatever happened to Mr. White, Jesse doesn't care to know.)

Crammed between cheering families in the bleachers, Jesse sweats it out (half nerves, half the blistering sun, he can't get used to this weather anymore) for a full hour. There's too many speeches — he remembers being bored as shit at his graduation. Was he high? Man, probably. Who can remember anymore. But when they start calling names and handing out diplomas (really just the diploma holders, he remembers that part, they mailed the actual paper later — total gyp, right?) he sits up straight, one hand worrying knuckles against his lips.

Thank fucking god Cantillo's early on in the alphabet, because he thinks he'd piss himself from anxiety if the wait was any longer.

It happens in mere seconds: the name, the walk across the stage, the handshake with the principal, smile and pose for a photo. He's too far to see Brock clearly but keeps his eyes trained on him for the rest of the ceremony, his heart a steady hammer in his chest.

In the mess afterward, hundreds of students disperse to find their waiting families, and the sun begins its slow crawl down past the mountains as cameras flash and kids scream. Easily the biggest crowd he's put himself in since his escape. He may be a bundle of frayed wires poorly masquerading as a normal human, but Jesse dutifully makes his way through the masses.

Groups gradually peel away, piling into cars and leaving wide open patches of the field between stragglers, grad programs and errant flowers from leis smashed into the ground. Probably already too late, Jesse tells himself, but from between a group of girls posing for photos and a family mid-argument about where to go for dinner, he sees them.

He recognizes Brock's grandma first. Old people don't change as much.

 _Go, keep walking, go say hi_ , the parts of his brain that still remember how to be a functioning person hiss, but Jesse stays rooted to the spot. He's not sure if he wants to cry or puke or both at once when Brock glances over. Their eyes catch, slide away, then lock on again.

Jesse lifts one hand in a vague gesture of _hey_ and _sup_ and _yeah, you, I'm looking at you_. Brock's brows draw together.

Shit, he got tall.

Grandma Cantillo looks over next, and if Brock's face is a mask of confusion, hers is one of grim recognition. They speak for a moment, and he sees Brock's eyes go wide before looking his way again. Another conversation, longer this time, Jesse can't hear them over the giggling girls but he knows an argument brewing when he sees it. Eventually Brock rips away from his small family, a hurried exclamation in Spanish tossed carelessly over his shoulder as he walks away.

For his part, Jesse stands there completely useless.

"Yo," Brock's saying as he approaches. "Do I know you?"

"Yes," Jesse rasps and clears his throat, more than a little awkward. "Yeah. I'm Jesse, uh, Jesse Pinkman—"

"Holy crap, abuela was right." It's strange being eye level-to-eye level with a kid he remembers as, well, very much a _kid_. Brock has grown into his baby face, but his eyes are still bright and kind, perplexed as he is. Then, with the complete brazen gracelessness only a teenage boy can possess, he blurts out, "Why're you here?"

It isn't mean, it's genuinely curious, and Jesse's own laughter surprises him.

He's grinning before he knows it, because this is hilarious and absurd and he has no answer for himself. "I was in the area," he shrugs. "Just wanted to say congratulations."

Brock laughs too, but it's a little awkward, a little bit _haha, what the hell am I even supposed to say right now_.

"Hey, and I heard about that soccer game," Jesse tacks on to the explanation. That lights the kid's face right up. "That's really cool, man. Good job."

"Oh, thanks! And— I guess thanks for coming too." He may be smiling now, but it's still weird. Jesse's not sure what he expected, but he definitely underestimated the inherent strageness of the situation. 

There's nothing more he can get from this. It's not like he can start a long, meandering apology for what happened to Andrea. That's not what this was for — this was simply to see Brock in the flesh, see that he's alive and healthy and doing well. And he is. The long-burning guilt for Andrea may never go out, but he can at least put his worries about Brock to rest. Despite Jesse's colossal screw ups, the kid turned out okay. So Jesse extends a hand, and when they shake, sincerity cracks his voice: "Have a good life, Brock, okay?"

"Sure, Jesse. Thanks again." Brock releases his hand and heads back toward his family (all watching like hawks, of course). "Have a good night."

Despite how often he finds himself in tears on the long drive back to Oregon, Jesse feels better than he thought he was capable of, warm and comfortable in his skin for the first time in— years, a decade, maybe ever. 


End file.
